


smarter than that

by illmatchtheminrenown



Category: An American in Paris - Gershwin/Lucas, Bandstand - Oberacker/Oberacker & Taylor
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, sad musicians deserve happiness too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 15:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12171489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illmatchtheminrenown/pseuds/illmatchtheminrenown
Summary: Jimmy lost more than he can admit to during the war. But a French singer with a layered history might be the key to waking up again.





	smarter than that

“Who are these guys again?” Nick grumbled as they stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the sign on a slightly dingy, mid-tier Manhattan club. It was Wayne who shrugged, half-apologetic.

“Got a letter from a buddy of mine last week. Guess he stayed back in France after the peace. Said a couple friends of his were coming over here, trying to break into the scene, asked if I’d look ‘em up.”

“Think they’re any good?” Jimmy asked, thinking of the casebooks on his table at home with just a hint of longing. 

“Hey, even if they’re not, what matters is they’re our brothers, we gotta support them if we can,” Donny said cheerfully, receiving a chorus of groans from the others. But with Julia on his arm, giving him a fond, wry smile, nothing could shake his mood. As they filed in, Jimmy couldn’t help watching the pair with a hint of longing.

Not like _that_. He was aware of Donny’s roughly handsome good looks - he wasn’t blind, after all - but that didn’t mean it made him feel any way in particular. He was more grateful for the other man’s quiet acceptance and gregarious friendship than anything. But the way they leaned into each other, the way they were rarely out of contact with each other - even just a bump of their shoulders or a casual hand on the arm - all of that, he envied more than he could say.

_Jimmy Campbell shows up for basic training filled with energy and terror in equal parts. He’s young and nervous and all too aware of how his skinny, pale, Midwestern frame looks next to the goddamn recruitment posterboys all around him. But he puts his heart and soul into training, trying to force his body to retain information the same way his brain remembers quotes from books he hasn’t read in years or his fingers remember how to play the saxophone and clarinet they already miss._

_One night, he can’t sleep, and so he sits up, grabs his water canteen, and raises it to his lips. Not to drink, but to practice, running his fingers along its side in lieu of his beloved instruments. Clarinet first. Open G, pinching his left fingers for a B flat, sliding up the C break into the higher octave. No reed, but his fingers remember their movements, improvising what he’s sure would be one helluva solo. He’s startled when a whisper emerges out of the nearby darkness._

_“Clarinet, sax, or oboe?” the voice queries. The man leans forward, and Jimmy sees the occupant of the cot across from his sit up and edge towards the foot of his bed._

_“Clarinet and sax. Oboe reeds aren’t worth the hassle,” he answers. The man grins, nodding._

_“Violin.” He extends his hand across the narrow aisle. “Roberto Moretti. Call me Bobby.”_

_Jimmy scoots down to the end of his bed and shakes his hand._

_“James Campbell. Jimmy. Nice to meet another civilized soul.”_

The men they came to see were the second set of the night. Jimmy was already bored by that point, running through cases in his head. The emcee announced the next act and Jimmy barely glanced up, until he heard a slightly accented voice soaring over a melody. Then he looked, and looked again.

_Henri knew something was wrong with him from the time he was seven years old and his schoolmates were all trying to win favor with Marie Coleaux and he could have cared less. He and his best friend Laurent preferred the company of each other and music and books. Sometimes he wondered what it might be like if he tried to kiss Laurent the way that the other boys kept trying to kiss Marie, but he knew that wasn’t okay to think, so he tamped it down. And if Laurent wondered the same thing, well, he never said._

After the show, the band met the two strangers for drinks. As they stood up to greet the newcomers, Jimmy took the opportunity to look more closely at the pair. The pianist, whose fingers had flown over the keys as nimbly as Donny’s did, was short and soft-faced, with a round sort of boy-next-door handsomeness and a pronounced limp in one leg. But it was the singer who had caught Jimmy’s attention, sending him into a rush of guilt and interest all at once. Tall, athletically built, and tanned, with golden-brown hair and a warm, open smile, he looked like he belonged on a screen in Hollywood, not some middling cabaret. 

Wayne got up, offered his hand. 

“So you’re Mulligan’s buddies. Wayne Wright, good to meet you.” He shook hands with the pianist first - Adam - then the singer, who introduced himself as Henri, with a strong French accent. Jimmy barely made eye contact, just enough to be polite, while he tried to get his bearings. It had been a while, but he was pretty sure this man was like him. Something about the way he carried himself, the glances he cast around, never lingering too long on any one male face, his cautious body movements. 

_Jimmy had always known he wasn’t the same as other boys. He figured it out for certain when he kissed Richie Wise down an alley when he was fourteen, their hands fumbling with each other for a few moments of vague enjoyment, before hurrying on their way and never speaking of it again. By the time college rolled around, he had learned every trick there was to know about keeping quiet about his preferences while still indulging from time to time. And in the dusty, sometimes seedy world of music, there was never a shortage of opportunities. But he took his time, just as he would with choosing a book off a shelf at the bookstore. If the risk was going to be taken, it had damn well better be worth his while._

_No one in his day-to-day life knew. Scratch that. He was pretty sure Michael knew. Sharp kid, killer on the drums. But the great thing was, he just didn’t care. That was a rare blessing._

As the night wore on, the conversation inevitably drifted away from small talk and towards music. Even though Adam’s compositions were more influenced by classical music mixed with avant-garde and Gershwin-esque jazz, and Donny leaned heavily into jazz improv and swing, the pair soon were deep in a technical discussion about chord progressions and tritones. A few drinks in, Julia ended up perched on Jimmy’s knee, talking with Henri about vocal care. Then Nick got up, only swaying slightly, and offered a hand to her for a dance. She went willingly, leaving Jimmy behind with the young singer. He fumbled for conversation before making an attempt.

“So, how’d you end up falling in with a pair of American bums?” he half-joked. Henri looked at him, smiling slightly.

“It’s a long story,” he replied. Jimmy glanced over at where Adam and Donny still lingered, now side by side at the piano and punctuating their animated conversation with the occasional chord progression or riff. 

“I think we’ve got time,” Jimmy dryly answered. Henri let out a snort.

“Fair enough.” He launched into a tale straight out of a movie, about how he stumbled into a cafè one day and met a sardonic pianist with a limp and a musical gift like he’d never seen, about how another American GI stumbled into that same cafè and became the third brother they didn’t know they were missing, about a beautiful ballerina (there was more to that story, Jimmy sensed, but didn’t ask) and secret jazz performances and a ballet and a happy ending that was a little bittersweet.

By the end of the story, Jimmy felt a sinking feeling that he liked Henri more than he had wanted to. What wasn’t to like? He was funny, thoughtful, smart, and clearly harbored secrets - all of Jimmy’s favorite things. They glanced up to see Adam and Donny still deep in discussion, but Adam glanced their way a couple of times, clearly trying to be subtle and failing. 

“He’ll talk all night, if your friend lets him,” Henri commented, nodding at the pair of pianists. “He never shuts up. About the music, about what the act should sound like, anything.”

Before a befuddled Henri knew what was happening, Jimmy threw back his head and burst into laughter.

“I do not understand, did I say something funny?” Henri asked, his accent more pronounced in his concern and confusion. Jimmy shakes his head, gesturing over at Adam and Donny.

“No, no. It’s just… Jesus Christ, there’s _two_ of them!”

_It’s easy to befriend Bobby. He’s tall and lanky like Jimmy, but with the dark hair and olive skin that indicates his Italian roots, and a half-smile on his handsome face at all times. They fall in step together easily. It was easy to trust that they’d have each other’s six. And in off hours, it was easy to fall into long conversations about home and about life and above all, about music._

_That’s where they find themselves one night, sitting on a rooftop in some port neither of them could remember the name of._

_“You know what the worst part about learning violin was? The fucking calluses,” Bobby reminisces, holding his hands out in front of him as if he could still see the scars from when he was seven. “See, you aren’t actually s’posed to get calluses, but when you’re a kid and no one’s taught you how to put the right pressure on the strings… that’s what you get.”_

_Jimmy grins, waggles his own fingers in front of them._

_“Best part of winds. No calluses, no scars, nothing,” he replies triumphantly. Bobby tilts his head curiously._

_“Really? I always figured wind players had the same problem, but with their lips instead.”_

_Jimmy feels a swooping in his stomach at the word “lips,” innocent as the context is. He swallows hard before answering, working hard to keep his voice casual._

_“Nah. But if you play too long, you kinda blow your lips out, which doesn’t feel great.” Now Jimmy knows he’s not imagining things, as Bobby’s glance lingers a second too long on his lips as he gestures to them to highlight his point.”_

_“But with practice, they probably get pretty… strong.” Bobby doesn’t quite meet Jimmy’s gaze._

_“I s’pose so. They do what they need to.” Bobby turns to look right at Jimmy, who meets his eyes without flinching and continues speaking. “Breath control is important, too. And it’s not all just, y’know, put your mouth on the reed and blow. There’s control involved. And… and tongue.” Jimmy stumbles, hoping desperately he hasn’t misread this. “But really,” he continues, “the fingers have to be nimble, or you can’t play the big runs and riffs right. I guess it’s probably the same for violin, too.”_

_Bobby reaches out, places his slender fingers on Jimmy’s cool cheek._

_“You tell me, James. Strong enough, d’you think?” he asks. Jimmy’s stomach swoops at the way his full name sounds in Bobby's low, rough voice, because all he wants to do, all he’s wanted to do for a long time, is to press Bobby down into that rough cot and run his hands all down his golden-tanned skin and prove to them both that there’s still good in this world full of war and fear. And then Jimmy closes the gap and kisses him, and Bobby kisses him back, and there's something different about this, something that settles deep in his chest and burrows in to stay._

Jimmy sat in the back room, poring over his books, when he heard a rap on the doorframe. Donny entered, balancing a sandwich in one hand and a cup of water in the other. 

“Do you ever leave home without a book?” Donny asked, setting down the food with a grin.

“Yes. Sometimes I leave with two.” Jimmy deadpanned. Donny leaned to look over his shoulder and let out a low whistle.

“Shit, man, how do you even read that?” 

“And _that_ , my friend, is why I’m going to make the big bucks.” Jimmy dodged a playful cuff from Donny and closed his book to tackle the slightly limp but perfectly edible sandwich. He could sense the other man had something on his mind by the slight furrow of his brow as he watched him eat silently.

“Either spit it out or stop staring. I know I’m handsome, but it’s a little unsettling while I’m eating,” Jimmy commented. He was rewarded by Donny choking on his own breath, before composing himself.

“So… what d’you think of that singer? Henri?”

“The French guy?” Whatever Jimmy expected, it wasn’t that. He put his sandwich down and studied Donny’s too-innocent, too-casual expression.

He remembered the day he had let Donny in on his secret. Donny’s casual reference to his needing a girl. Jimmy’s heart thundering in his chest as he turned around, slowly. His deliberate, measured statement, looking Donny straight in the eyes, daring him to react. _I’d pegged you for smarter than that, Donny._ Donny’s awkward attempts to be nonchalant, trying not to say the wrong thing. Mentioning Bobby - the first time he had told anyone since that day. And the greatest gift: Donny’s complete lack of concern, not flinching away but instead slinging an arm over his shoulders like he’d done dozens of times before. People said that knowing things didn’t change their opinion of you, but they never meant it. Donny did.

In the present day, Jimmy narrowed his eyes as it hit him all at once.

“Donny Novitski… are you trying to be my wingman?” 

_Laurent grew up to be as tall and handsome as everyone expected - tall and lean with light brown curls that flopped into his face regularly. Henri noticed it every day with a sinking in his chest. By the time they were nineteen, they were closer than ever, but both of their mothers seemed to encourage them, with subtle suggestions, that they should find young ladies to go on double dates with._

_And one evening, slightly tipsy on their way home from the club, Laurent kisses him in the rain, and it is everything Henri could have hoped for, and he kisses him back, and for a few moments, they are incandescence and light._

_A few days later, they are back at the club, and the other young men are talking politics and business and women, and when Laurent says nothing, they pounce._

_“Laurent here wouldn’t know, though, would he, boys?” One of their friends, Michel, teased at Laurent, who tried to laugh good-naturedly in hopes that it would pass. But this time, it didn’t. Whether due to the wine or the political tensions or some deep-seated bitterness finally boiling over, the group began piling jeers on Laurent, needling him until he was on the verge of tears. Only Henri said nothing. And with wine-heightened senses, Michel noticed._

_“Henri is awfully quiet, eh, boys? What’s wrong, Henri? Wait…” Michel trailed off deliberately, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re like that too? A real man wouldn’t hesitate… but a degenerate…” He let the words trail off again._

_Laurent looked up at Henri through sad, hooded eyes, half-pleading, half-resigned. Henri hated himself for what he did next: threw his friend, his Laurent, under the bus to save himself. He refused to ever repeat what he said in that moment ever again, even silently to himself._

_In ‘42, Henri heard through his Resistànce network about the Free French forces who helped turn the tide in North Africa, albeit with heavy losses. On one such list of the dead, he read the name “Laurent Girard” and had to put the paper down for a moment as pride and shame and grief all well up at once._

_He was glad that at least one of them turned out to be courageous, and he spent the rest of the war trying to live up to Laurent’s example._

One particularly tough night, after a hard rehearsal and coming off no sleep thanks to nightmares, Jimmy snapped. He wasn’t proud of it, but he did. He was in some club with a couple of the guys, along with Henri and Adam, and the talk turned - as it sometimes did with enough drinks - to the war. 

Jimmy didn’t even remember what exactly it was that Henri said, something that alluded to his family’s position or something like that. But before he knew it, he was seeing red, and he put his glass down with an icy, almost delicate sort of calm before turning on the Frenchman.

“Oh yes, please tell us more about how hard you had it, Henri. Living in comfort while half the country lay in ruins. Schmoozing with Nazis while people were getting shot just because they blinked too much when some SS officer made eye contact.” Jimmy could see, peripherally, that Wayne and Davy were getting up and looking concerned, but he ignored them, focusing only on the stunned man in front of him.

“It must have been so hard. You know what’s harder? Seeing your buddies die right in front of you. Walking through the scenes of so much pain and carnage that you swear you can still hear the screaming. Standing there while… while…” He broke for a moment, but shrugged off Davy’s hand on his shoulder. “While your whole ship blows up, and everything around you is dead bodies in the water. That’s what war is, _mon ami._ ” Jimmy spit out the last two words into a dead silence. Henri met his angry gaze with a humorless laugh.

"Americans. Always having to start something. I would remind you that you do not have a monopoly on effort and on suffering." And without another word, Henri picked up his hat, put on his coat, clapped Adam on the shoulder, and leaves. 

Davy and Wayne excused themselves to get the next round, but Adam remained seated next to Jimmy, staring at him with those irritatingly wise eyes. 

“I thought the same thing, y’know,” he said. “Thought Henri and his family were nice little Vichy socialites, going with the flow no matter which side was winning. Even once I actually started to like the bastard, I didn’t think he could know a damn thing about war. Not like… well…” He trailed off, gesturing at his damaged leg. 

“Here’s the thing, though - I had the wrong idea about him, and I think you do too.” At this, Jimmy finally looked up. Adam grinned as if expecting this reaction.

“His family was part of the Resistance. Smuggled a ton of money to support the fighters, hid a Jewish girl and treated her like part of their family. You know the ballerina that's gonna marry Mulligan? Lise? Her. She'd be dead if not for them. And Henri? He worked in the Resistance. Information, spying… I think he might have been in a few skirmishes, too, but he won’t say.”

Jimmy felt his heart drop. How could he have been so stupid? There were many ways to fight a war. Bobby used to say that, whenever Jimmy would begin berating himself for being so bookish when Uncle Sam needed muscle. Adam must have noticed this, because he claps a friendly hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry. You wouldn't be the first to have him pegged wrong."

_Before they're set to leave port again from New York, the sailors have a weekend to spend in the city. A few have family nearby. Most run off in small groups to see the sights and pick up pretty girls. Bobby and Jimmy slip off together, away from their macho skirt-chasing friends, and explore the city together with artists’ eyes._

_They stop at the cathedral, at Bobby's insistence. Jimmy is fairly his mother would be more upset that he's praying quietly in a Catholic cathedral than that he's doing so next to his… boyfriend of over a year, whose lips are moving rapidly in silent, fervent prayer before pressing against the cross hanging around his neck._

_As they exit, Jimmy thinks of something._

_“Bobby? Do you think we're damned for this?” he asks. Bobby looks at him sideways._

_“Damned? What are you talking about, Jimmy?” Jimmy shrugs._

_“I dunno. I met a fella once… I kissed him and the next day he told me that he hated me for tempting him into sin and that I had the devil in my blood.” He says it lightly, but Bobby knows him too well and pulls them to a stop._

_“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and Earth, of all that is seen and unseen,” he recites. Even a lapsed Episcopalian like Jimmy recognizes the opening words of the Nicene Creed._

_“The way I see it, God created everything. He created us, He created who we are and what we feel. And if he created it, it must be good,” Bobby continues simply. “He commands us to love. That's what this is, isn't it, James?” They haven’t actually said it yet, but Jimmy smiles._

_“Of course it is.” Bobby uses the excuse of the crowded sidewalk to lean closer to Jimmy._

_“You’re mine. And I’m yours,” he whispers._

_Later that night, sated and sleepy, Jimmy whispers in Bobby’s ear as they drift into sleep._

_“You’re mine, and I’m yours.”_

Jimmy sat with his books surrounding him. When all else fails, study - that was his motto. As he pored over a torts case, he heard the door creak open.

“Break over already? I'll be right there, Donny,” he said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. But it wasn't Donny who closed the door and came to sit next to him. It was Julia.

“Jimmy… is there anything you want to talk about?” she asked carefully. He had told her the truth about his ship - and Bobby - one sad, drunk night a while back, but they had never spoken of it since; the closest they had come was a long embrace after the NBC contest, when he murmured something incoherent about how her lyrics had told his story without telling what couldn't be said aloud.

He just shrugged.

“Donny send you?” She looked hurt at that, which made him feel even worse. “Shit, that was rude, Julia, I'm sorry, I don't know what's gotten into me lately,” he apologized, reaching for her hand. She squeezed his hand and bent her head so he was forced to look her in the eyes. 

“I think you do, Jimmy,” she said gently. And with that, Jimmy began shaking uncontrollably. He put his head in his hands and felt her cool hands running through his hair.

“I just… I can't do it, Julia. I can't stop thinking about… and I keep seeing… and no one gets it. No one gets it,” he murmured, a bit frantic. Julia’s voice broke over him, oddly constrained.

“No one?” Jimmy looked up at her, another apology on his lips, but she was already holding up a hand to stop him.

“Let me tell you something. When Michael died, I was… I don't know what I was. I can barely remember those first few days, and my mom won't ever talk about them. But I thought I would never be happy again. And then time passed, and I remember, the first time I smiled again, and I felt guilty. So, so guilty, like being happy, even for a moment, meant that I was forgetting Michael or disrespecting him.”

Jimmy could barely breathe, her story sounded so familiar to him. Her expression showed that she knew what he was feeling, and she continued on.

“And when I met Donny, and all of you, it made thing better and then worse again. I thought that singing, and working, and loving Donny, that all that was somehow betraying Michael.”

“Then how did you do it? I've seen how you and Donny are, you’re… a goddamn fairytale.” She laughed.

“Some fairytale. But how did we do it? I realized something one day. I realized that being happy, falling in love again, that wasn't betraying Michael. Being sad and throwing my life away - now that would be the real betrayal. Those we loved wouldn't want us to spend our lives shut away.”

“But it's so… hard,” Jimmy whispered. Julia reached over and pulled him into a hug, holding him close with all the understanding of a sister.

“I know, honey. I know.” 

_They wander the streets together, careful to keep enough distance between them after getting a suspicious glare from an older couple when their hands brush. Talking about the future. About playing in a band, or a symphony, or something. About where to live._

_“How attached are you to Ohio?”_

_“Only a little. How attached are you to New Jersey?”_

_“Very.”_

_“Jersey it is.” And Bobby smiles at the easy assumption that wherever he goes, so will Jimmy._

_“We should do something to make it official,” Jimmy says. Bobby laughs._

_“Who knew you were such a traditionalist, James?” he teases. Jimmy elbows him in the side._

_“I'm serious! We can't do, y'know, anything conspicuous, but…” He trails off, looking up at the store in front of them. “Come on.”_

_He pulls Bobby inside a store full of fabrics and ribbons. Turning around, he smiles._

_“Pick one for me, and I'll pick one for you. We tie it somewhere where it won't be noticed.” Bobby looks at him as if he would kiss him right there, but settles for a smirking grin._

_“Creative, James. I like it.”_

_They browse until Jimmy finds a plaid pattern like his favorite pants back home, and Bobby plucks out a golden color that matches the flecks Jimmy likes in his eyes. When they approach the salesgirl with their purchases and ask to borrow a needle and thread, she gives them a look before gesturing them to follow her._

_She brings them to a back breakroom before turning to face them._

_“My brother’s an accountant. Very boring and formal. That's why he's never married, too boring for any girl. But he's got his best friend. Cal. And one time, he asked me to help him sew something inside the collar of his suit jackets.” She pauses, looks at their uniforms. “That won't work for you. Inspections and stuff, right? What about the inside of your cuffs?”_

_They stare at her in surprise. She gestures for them to take their jackets off, and they obey._

_“I'm sorry, miss, we don't mean to-” She cuts Jimmy off._

_“You're not. And, it's Sarah. Sarah Gray.”_

_“Jimmy. And this is Bobby.”_

_Sarah finishes quickly, with such small stitches no one will notice a thing, and hands their jackets back. As they get dressed, she smiles at them._

_“When do you ship out?” she asks._

_“Monday.”_

_“Well then, good luck, boys. Tell you what. When you both come back, home and safe, you come back here and find me and tell me you're okay. Promise?”_

_They do. They depart with nothing new but a bit of cloth under each sleeve, but feeling like something important has happened._

Jimmy sat next to Henri at a bar, careful to angle himself away from the Frenchman. They sipped at their drinks in silence until Jimmy spoke.

“Thanks for coming. I wasn't sure you would,” Jimmy said. Henri shrugged.

“I wasn't sure you would ask,” he replied. “I owe Adam two dollars. So thanks for that.” Jimmy was fairly sure he was joking but plunged into an apology anyway.

“Look, I'm sorry about the other day. Adam told me… he told me about the war from your side.” Henri chuckled.

“He always does that,” he muttered into his glass with just a hint of exasperation.

“But even if he hadn't, I owe you an apology anyway. I had no business insulting anyone's experience. I just… It's hard when…” Jimmy trailed off as Henri looked up with a knowing gaze.

“The war was… particularly difficult for you?” he asked gently. Jimmy nodded, his throat tight.

“I lost… I lost more than I could say.” Jimmy was surprised when he felt a warm pressure on his hand as Henri covered his hand with his. It only lasted a moment, but the warmth remained.

They walked back together as far as Henri and Adam’s apartment. They lingered on the stop for a moment, the only people on the street.

“Thanks for understanding,” Jimmy offered, shuffling his feet. Henri did not smile, instead peering at him with serious eyes.

“We have all lost, Jimmy. But life can go on. My friend Lise, she lost her home and her family and nearly everything else. But she mourned, and then one day, life moved forward for her. Her parents would not want her to be sad. Finding joy is how we honor those who are lost,” he said softly. Jimmy let out a short laugh

“No, it’s not that it’s funny, it’s just… you’re reminding me of something Julia said.” Henri looked down slightly. 

“I remind you of Julia?” he asked. Jimmy grinned at that, suddenly understanding. 

“In some ways, yes. You’re both kind, and try to make everyone feel better, and sing like a dream.” He stepped forward then. “But in other ways… not in the least. And I’m glad.”

Jimmy glanced around, then, seeing the street empty, leaned forward. He gave Henri a moment to pull away, and when he did not, he kissed him, light and soft and promising.

_They were together that morning, Jimmy remembers. He knows he’ll never forget their last morning. They woke up together, tangled in the rough blankets and in each other, having seized a rare opportunity to be daring. They both knew the consequences if they were caught, especially by one particular officer who saw it as his personal mission to “sniff out the fairies.” But they were in a goddamn war - men met worse fates every day._

_They get dressed a little sleepily, pausing here and there to steal more kisses. Bobby gently tucks Jimmy’s glasses onto his face, punctuating it with a gentle caress of his cheek, while Jimmy tries in vain to smooth Bobby’s messy dark waves into some semblance of respectability._

_“Don’t bother,” Bobby murmurs, catching Jimmy’s hands in his instead._

_“D’you want them all to know what we’ve been doing?” Jimmy whispers. Bobby grins and hesitates for a moment, as if the idea is tempting, before sighing and leaning his head down to allow Jimmy’s fussing._

_“If you insist, James.”_

_Jimmy doesn’t remember who kissed who on the way out that morning. At that point, it didn’t really matter. What he does remember is what it was like. Simple, sweet, casual. Like a habit. Like something they had done every day and would continue to do every day for the rest of their lives._

_They are both on deck when the first explosion hit. The ship rocks dangerously as smoke billowed here and there, orders begin flying, and men scurry to emergency posts. Jimmy fights his way through the chaos, heedless of orders and procedure. There were other lives on that ship, but God help him, he only cares about the one. He stumbles into something warm and solid and is about to shove it out of his way when he hears his name._

_“Jimmy. James! James, it’s me,” Bobby cries out, grabbing him by the shoulders. Conscious of the others running around them, Jimmy only places his hands on the other man’s shoulders, looking him in the eye but unable to speak for fear of giving them away._

_Bobby looks around as the fires spread and the deck becomes increasingly frenzied._

_“I think this might be our last ride, James,” he comments, trying to not let the fear show through his light tone. But Jimmy knows him too well for that, and his hand finds Bobby’s._

_“At least we go down together,” Jimmy manages. His hand reaches up Bobby’s cuff to feel the patch of fabric sewn on the underside, the bright bit of blue-gray plaid, and thinks of the similar patch inside his own sleeve, a bit of amber-gold. Bobby feels what he’s doing, and mutters in his ear, reaching for the only last words that matter._

_“You’re mine, and I’m yours.”_

_That’s when the second explosion hits._

_And Jimmy is in the water, treading water just enough to stay afloat. He would scream, but the screams are dying down and making a sound would call attention to him as the German patrols seek out survivors to take as prisoners. He knows help is on the way, if he can just survive until then. All around him are bodies and wreckage, and in this state, he can’t tell who’s actually dead and who’s just pretending like him._

_Except for one. He found one body that’s not feinting to avoid German gazes, and he’s dragged it with him to the wreckage where they both float, waiting._

_He insists on bringing the body with him on board the rescue ship. “He deserves a proper burial at sea. He’s… he was Catholic. Please. He was my friend.”_

Henri and Adam walked out the stage door with the Donny Nova Band after a gig, cheerfully talking with their friends. They hung back while a handful of fans surrounded the band, asking for autographs and gushing over them. The band graciously talked to each before heading out in the cool Manhattan night. Henri fell in step next to Jimmy, their hands just barely bumping up against each other. 

Suddenly, Henri tensed up. Jimmy followed his gaze to see a petite young woman staring right at them. She quickly turned away and began walking away. His first instinct was to jerk away, but then recognition kicked in and he called out to her.

“Miss Gray! Sarah!” Sarah turned around, a nervous smile on her face as she approached him. Henri hung back, uncertain.

“Jimmy… hi. I didn’t want to bother you, I figured…”

“No, no. God, not a bother at all, I’m glad to see you again.” She relaxed at that, grinned widely.

“Saw you on that TV contest. Couldn’t believe you were _that_ Jimmy Campbell. I told everyone I knew that I once waited on the sax player in that band that got famous,” she said, teasing slightly. Her smile faded after a moment. “I was real glad to see you on TV. When you didn’t come back to the store, I kept wondering…”

Jimmy pressed his lips together in a tight near-smile.

“Yeah, well. You said to come back when we both made it home safe,” he said evenly. Sarah’s eyes widen as she comprehends his meaning.

“And you couldn’t do that. Oh. Oh, Jimmy, I’m so sorry.” Sarah reached out and touched his hand in sympathy. “He was a real nice fella.” 

"How's your brother? And... and Cal?" he asked. She broke into a grin

"They're great, actually. Moved back here. Andy's working for a big firm on Wall Street now, and Cal's lecturing at NYU. I'll have to tell him you asked about him - he won't believe it!" She glanced over his shoulder to where Henri waited. “And you… you’re okay, now?”

Jimmy followed her gaze to Henri, who smiled nervously. For a split second, he swore he could see two other men standing beyond Henri. One was unfamiliar, a lean brunet who stared beyond Jimmy, but the other was tall and dark and smirking an approving grin at Jimmy before he vanished into the night and back into memory. Jimmy turned back to Sarah with a small smile, this one genuine.

“You know something? I think I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still not over that cut scene for Jimmy, and then, well, this happened.


End file.
